


A Dish Served Cold

by clgfanfic



Category: Jake and the Fatman
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 08:36:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clgfanfic/pseuds/clgfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jake is taken and tortured.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dish Served Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the zine Compadres #10 under the pen name Nancy Platte.

          Metal and wood slats rattled as J.L. McCabe turned the key and let the door swing open.  The unusually quiet house reminded him of a mausoleum and he forced himself to step across the threshold, closing the door behind him.

          The air was slightly stale, trapped sea-breeze and potted plant soil.  He walked to the kitchen window and pushed it open, then opened the front door to let the place air out.

          He began a slow investigation, his gaze wandering over the furniture, the knick-knacks, the pictures.

 _Where do I start_ , McCabe wondered.

_Three weeks.  Three damned weeks, Jake.  Where the hell are you?  What happened?_

          The questions had become a litany.

          This was worse than death.  The not knowing, the waiting, was unbearable.

          J.L. rubbed his forehead as he finally sat down at the kitchen counter and stared into the memories of the past three weeks.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Derek!"

          The young blond man, seated at his desk, jumped.  Glancing at the empty desk in the corner of the office, he knew his boss wanted to know where his chief investigator was.

          The blond stood and entered McCabe's office just in time to stop the next bellow that promised to shatter the glass panes that cut McCabe's office off from the rest of the open work area.

          "You wanted to see me, sir?"

          "I want to know where Jake is!  It's ten a.m., we have a case to work on!"

          Derrick nodded.  "I know.  He, uh, he's not in yet."

          "I can see that," McCabe snapped.  He tried a friendly tone.  "Derek, do you know where he is?"

          The effort failed.

          "No…"

          McCabe's eyes narrowed as he studied the younger man.  Derek knew something, but he wasn't at all sure he was willing to share that information, even in the face of J.L.'s obvious displeasure.

          "Well?"

          "Sir?"

          " _What_ do you know about this?"

          Derek shuffled uncomfortably under the portly man's scowl.  He was used to McCabe's usual bluster, but this was different.  He could read the underlying concern.

          "Okay," Derek surrendered, "all I know is, Jake planned on taking Kelly Paul out on a fishing trip this weekend.  He borrowed Harry Fowler's boat."

          "A fishing trip?!"  McCabe tapped the tip of his pencil on the blotter several times.  "Have you called him at home?"

          "Yeah," Derek admitted.  "I tried calling about eight.  I got the machine.  I even tried Ms. Paul's apartment.  No luck there either."

          "If he isn't in here after lunch I'm going to drive out there and—"  The phone rang, cutting the man off.  He glared at the instrument before answering it.

          Derek waited, wondering who was on the other end.  Whoever it was, it looked like bad news.

          With a grunt McCabe hung up the phone and stood, reaching for his straw hat.  "That was the Coast Guard.  They found Fowler's boat, deserted."

          Derek frowned and followed the older man as he waddled purposefully from the office.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "And there were no traces of anyone?"

          The Coast Guard commander shook his head.  "There was nothing to suggest that anyone had been on board, no food, no clothes, gear, nothing."

          "When you get back to the harbor, I want the police scientific investigations team to go over that boat stem to stern."

          "I'll contact your office as soon as my men bring it in, Mr. McCabe," the commander assured.  "It looks like the boat drifted several hours, if the information you have on where they were going is correct."

          "Thank you, Commander."

          The man nodded and moved off to talk to one of his junior officers.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Yoshi, talk to me.  What have you found?" McCabe asked the older Japanese man who stood on the deck of the small boat, scanning down a clipboard.

          "This was a professional job, J.L.  There's nothing.  The boat's been cleaned top to bottom.  No prints so far, and very little trace evidence."

          Derek watched McCabe, who was at a loss for words for the first time the young lawyer could remember.

          "And Jake?"

          "I'd say he and the young lady were on board, but I can't give you a definite or a time.  We found a few hairs in the sheets and blankets, and the back to a pierced earring in the carpet of the stateroom.  Beyond that we have nothing."

          "Let me know as soon as you get the analysis back on the hair."

          "Will do, J.L."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "What exactly did Jake tell you?" McCabe asked Derek as they sat in the Court House commissary with ice teas.

          "Not much, really, just that he was borrowing Fowler's boat so he and Kelly could go out by Ilio Point and do some fishing.  They were leaving Friday afternoon and Jake said they'd be back Sunday afternoon."

          McCabe scowled at the drink, thinking about the implications and disliking intensely all the conclusions he came up with.

          "What do we do now?" Derek asked.

          "Check with the docks around Ilio, then we wait.  There's nothing else we can do."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

 _What do we do, Jake?_ McCabe asked himself, staring at the empty kitchen.  They'd exhausted every option over the last three weeks, with no results.

          A missing persons was in effect for Jake and the young woman, but each day that passed statistically reduced the chances they'd find either of them alive.

          McCabe had intended to check the house over again when he came, hoping he could find something the lab boys had missed when they checked it over the second day of Jake's absence, but he couldn't force himself to begin.

          "Damn it, Jake," he growled thickly, remembering the phone call he'd been forced to make after seven days.

          Mrs. Styles took the news better than he expected.  As worried as she was about her son, her daughter was expecting, and after several complications early in her pregnancy, she decided against coming to Hawaii.  McCabe had promised to keep her up to date.

          It helped, having someone to share his grief with.  He remembered telling Jake, not so long ago, that he wished the younger man was his son.  And the weight on McCabe's heart was for the loss of a son.

          The sound of a second car pulling up and parking in the driveway did little to force McCabe out of his melancholy brooding.

          Derek walked in to join his boss.

          "What're you doing here?" McCabe asked without his usual growl.

          "It's Kelly Paul," the younger man said softly.  "They… found her body.  It washed up on the beach this morning.  If it wasn't for the identification on the body we wouldn't have known…"  He trailed off, then swallowed hard.  "The coroner's confirming that it's her, now."

          McCabe worked to keep his voice neutral and steady.  "Jake?"

          "Nothing."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          McCabe paced sullenly around the private office of Dr. Jon Sorenson while Derek sat, nervously watching the wind-blown palm trees through the window.

          The door opened and with a flurry of paperwork, brown bag, and half-balanced coffee cup and saucer as Sorenson joined them.

          "J.L., sorry it took so long, but I'm breaking in a new man."  In his early fifties, the physician's Nordic appearance seemed out of place for the islands.  Setting the bag and coffee aside, he rifled through the stack of papers, pulling several free and handed them over to McCabe.  "The body was Kelly Paul.  We had a perfect match to her dental records and a fracture and pin match to her medical records.  There can't be any mistake.  I'm sorry."

          "At least we know," McCabe sighed.

          "J.L., she died from a single .38 caliber round fired into the base of her skull.  It looks very professional."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          McCabe walked into the small visitation room, his outward appearance sanguine, but inside he wanted to cry.  Seated at a small table sat the man who'd asked to see him regarding the death of Kelly Paul.

          "Dan," he said conversationally.

          "Dad."

          "You wanted to see me?" he asked, lowering himself into the second chair.

          Dan McCabe fidgeted, his gaze fixing on his wringing hands.

          "Well, what is it?" McCabe snapped.

          Dan jumped, his gaze coming up to lock onto his father's.  "I know who killed Kelly Paul, who had her killed."

          "Go on."

          "Jack Wilder."

          McCabe clamped his teeth tightly.  Wilder had the resources.  "How did Wilder know Kelly Paul?"

          "He didn't."

          "What kind of game are you playing, Dan?"

          "No game, Dad," the younger man said, standing.  He walked to the far wall and started out the window.  "He wasn't after the girl.  He was after Jake."

          "I see."  McCabe tried to ignore the cold lump growing in the pit of his stomach.  "And you gave him Jake, didn't you."

          Dan turned back.  "I didn't know what he—"

          "Like hell you didn't!" the P.A. bellowed.  "You knew exactly what Wilder wanted to do, and you gave him the information he needed.  Isn't that right?"

          Folding his arms over his chest Dan pressed into the corner.  "Maybe I did."

          "Why?" McCabe asked, half-pleading and half-demanding.

          "Because he—"  Dan broke off.  "Because, just because."

          "Who took him?"

          "I don't know."

          "Is he alive?"

          "I don't know."

          "Well, what _do_ you know?"

          Dan exploded.  "I know you love him more than you ever loved me, that's what I know!  I know you'd rather he was your son!"

          "So you helped someone kill him?" McCabe yelled.

          "So I shot my mouth off more than I should.  I swear to you I didn't know Wilder could do what he did."

          "Like hell."  McCabe stood.  "I'll have an officer come in and take your statement."

          "Dad," Dan called, "you have to get me out of here.  Wilder'll kill me if he finds out I talked."

          McCabe nodded.  "I'll arrange a transfer."

          "Dad?"

          McCabe stopped at the door, but refused to turn.

          "I'm sorry."

          "Yeah," was all he said as he left.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Derek slumped back into the chair in McCabe's office and closed his eyes.  It had been easier to believe that somehow Jake was still alive, but now, the last stings of hope finally unraveled for the young man.

          When he opened his eyes again he found the P.A. staring sadly at Max, who lay sleeping on the couch.

          "What do we do now?" Derek asked softly, watching McCabe reach out and scratch the bulldog's head.  "Are you going to call Jake's mom?"

          "No.  And we'll keep looking until we have a body.  I want all the cases Jake's worked on since we've been in Hawaii on my desk by this afternoon, then start pulling the files for the last three years in Los Angeles.  Run all the names, see who's still in prison, who's out.  If Wilder and Dan set this up, they had to have contacts on the outside."

          Derek sighed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.  "Do you really think he's still alive?"

          "I won't give up on Jake until I see a body!" McCabe snapped angrily.

          "Yes, sir."  The young man stood and walked quickly way before he said something that would hurt them both.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          McCabe stared at the stack of files for several minutes, finally lowering his head to rest his forehead on his open palms.  The facts were simple.  Everyone Jake had been involved with in Hawaii was either dead or in prison.  A lot could be done from prison, if you had enough money.  Wilder had the money.  He knew the man was responsible, but no amount of pressure had moved the man to talk.  And Dan simply didn't know enough to make an educated guess…  Wilder wanted Jake dead and he had someone do it.

          McCabe shuffled through the files and pulled Wilder's again.  If anyone could afford a hit like this one, he could.  He pulled Dan's as well.  Although it didn't seem his style to have Jake killed, he might not be beyond abduction.

          "Derek!"

          The blond man trotted in.  "Yes, sir?"

          "Pull the prison records for Wilder and Dan.  I want to know who they've seen since their convictions."

          "Right away."

          McCabe watched the young man go, knowing he thought the work they were doing was for nothing.  _But if Jake is dead_ , McCabe decided, _I'm going to nail whoever's responsible_.

          He knew the two men were friends, Derek looking up to Jake as a big brother of sorts.  He wished he could help the young attorney with his feelings, but at the moment McCabe was having enough trouble handling his own.

          Derek walked up to the open door of McCabe's office.

          "What are you doing?  I want to see those case files!" the older man blustered.

          "It's Jake," the blond said, his voice a choked whisper.

          "Dead?"

          Derek's head twitched.  "They have him at Honolulu General."

          McCabe nearly knocked his swivel chair over as he stood and joined the younger man at the door.  "What are we waiting for?"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          When they arrived at the hospital Derek was sure they'd be thrown out before they had a chance to talk to anyone.  McCabe exploded at three nurses, several orderlies, and the assistant director of the hospital before he was herded into the office of the attending physician and told to wait quietly or leave.

          The prosecuting attorney took up residence in one of the large leather chairs in front of the physician's desk and sank into a angry silence.

          "I don't see why they won't let us see him," McCabe grumbled to himself.  "Do you?"

          "Huh?  Uh, no, I guess not," Derek said, as uncomfortable with the waiting as his boss.

          "Derek, I want to apologize if I've been little irritable lately."

          "I understand," the younger man said, trying to hide a smile.  He'd have to mark this day on his calendar.  J.L. McCabe never apologized to anyone.  The realization made him more uncomfortable.

          They were saved from the tense silence when the door swung open and two doctors joined them.  One, a handsome man in his mid-sixties, took a seat behind the desk.  The second, a younger woman, stood alongside the desk, her hands resting tiredly in the pockets of her lavender lab coat.

          "Mr. McCabe, I'm Drake Genoa, and this is Caitlin McTeague; we've been working on Mr. Styles since he arrived this morning.  I must tell you up front, we feel his chances for survival are poor at this point.  He's presently listed in critical condition."

          "What happened?" McCabe asked.  He watched Dr. McTeague sigh and look away, chewing on her lower lip.

          Dr. Genoa explained, "We don't know exactly.  But I'll tell you this, I was a physician in Korea and Vietnam and even with the POWs I saw there, I've never seen anything like this.  Mr. Styles has been treated in ways I'd prefer not to speculate on."

          "And they used drugs to enhance the effect," Dr. McTeague added, the disgust only partially hidden in her voice.  "Mr. Styles' blood chemistry looks like something out of a pharmacist's nightmare.  We're trying to detoxify his blood so we can get in and repair the major damage."

          Dr. Genoa nodded.  "If we can't clear his system in time, he'll bleed to death from the internal injuries.  He was shot, looks like a fairly large caliber weapon.  We've re-inflated the lung, but the bullet is still in his chest cavity and we can't go in after it until we can use the drugs we'll need, and we can't do that until the other chemicals are out of his system," he clarified.

          "There's also evidence of exposure, dehydration, and starvation," Caitlin added.

          "The person who contacted the office said Jake was in a coma?" Derek asked, his face as pale as the Styrofoam cup Dr. Genoa filled with water and sipped from before he answered.

          "We think so, but at this point it's a difficult diagnosis.  He's on full life support.  We don't know if the state's induced by the drugs or his condition in general."

          "Or if he's just withdrawn and given up."

          Genoa nodded his agreement with McTeague's addition.

          "It's a race with time.  We have to clear the drugs so we can repair the damage from the chest wound, or nothing else we do will make the slightest bit of difference," Caitlin told them, sitting down on the edge of the desk.

          "Can I see him?" McCabe asked.

          "We'd like to limit visits to family members only," Genoa said.  "And even then I'm not sure I'd want anyone too close to see him the way he looks."

          "There is no family," McCabe lied.  "But he's like a son to me."

          Derek winced at the words, knowing the emotional cost they extracted from the older man.

          Genoa nodded.  "Very well, but keep it brief, and keep in mind he's been through hell and looks it.  The machines aren't going to help either.  I don't want to have to scrape visitors up off the floor."

          "I understand."

          "I'll show you," McTeague said, rising from the desk.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          As wild as McCabe's imagination ran on the walk to Jake's room, it did not prepare him for the reality of what he saw.  Every exposed part of Jake's body was bruised or scarred.  Both eyes were swollen shut, his face a matrix of yellow-purple bruises.  Blood stained the bandages wrapped around his forehead and chest.  A tangle of wires and tubes seemed to cradle the man, the machines beating out the rhythm of life for the detective, who was too weak to do it for himself.

          "Five minutes," Caitlin whispered as she left.

          McCabe walked slowly to the bedside, staring down at the man, unsure what to say or do.

          After a moment, he reached out, taking Jake's cold hand into his own.  He noticed the torn and scabbed fingertips and shivered.  Laying the unresponsive limb back on the bed, McCabe let the steady beeps and whirs wash over him in waves of hopelessness.

          "Jake?  Don't give up," McCabe said, his voice catching.  "I promise you, we'll find who did this, but you have to stay strong.  I—"  He stopped as Caitlin re-entered.  "It can't be five minutes—"

          "He was conscious when they found him.  Even with that chest wound he overpowered two paramedics, darn-near broke one's jaw with a right hook.  They said he acted scared to death and mad as hell.  When he finally collapsed it took both of them to hold him down so he wouldn't crawl away.  That's when the fear took over.  He panicked and withdrew.  By the time they got him to the hospital he was like this."

          "Where did they find him?"

          "The file says someone on the south beach spotted him lying in the surf.  They were too afraid to get close with the injuries.  I can't say as I'd blame them.  They did call the paramedics, though."

          "What you do think, really?"

          She looked down at the injured man.  "I'd say it doesn't look good, but that he survived at all is a good sign.  It took a strong personality and will to live to hang on this long.  That'll work in his favor.  You'll be able to see him for five to ten minutes a couple of times a day.  Talk to him when you're here.  We know people in comas often understand what they hear and right now we'll take any help we can get."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          An agonizing eighteen hours passed before the drugs filtered out of Jake's system while he remained on life support.  The question shifted: was he strong enough to survive the surgery and could he survive without it?

          McCabe sat, watching the monitors angrily.  Holding Jake's hand in his own, he talked to the unconscious man.  "Damn it, Jake, you've got to fight this.  They're going to take you in for surgery today, and you've got to _fight_."

          The beeps and whirs taunted him with their steady, unchanging response.

          "You give up, and I swear when I get on the other side, I'll kick your butt all the way to hell!"

          Dr. McTeague entered while the comment echoed in the small room.  She smiled.  "I don't know if he can hear you, but if it was me, and I could, I'd definitely hang on."

          McCabe smiled for the first time in longer than he cared to remember, then chuckled.  "I just hope he feels the same way."

          "Why don't you let me buy you a cup of coffee; you look like you could use it."

          "Thank you, I think I'll let you do that," he patted Jake's hand and laid it back on the bed.  "You'd better get better soon, kiddo, or I'll steal this lovely lady away from you."

          Caitlin smiled.  "Blackmail, that's a good tactic, too."

          They walked to a small cafe across the street from the hospital.  She bought two coffees and a sample plate of mixed pastries.  "My obsession," she explained.

          Taking a seat outside along the front of the building, they watched the traffic passing while they fixed the coffees and snacked on the tiny pastries.

          "We scheduled Jake for surgery this evening."

          "I thought you and Dr. Genoa wanted to wait until he was off the respirator."

          "We did, but the x-ray showed that the bullet moved.  If we don't remove it now, it might end up someplace more serious. I just want you to understand that this isn't going to be done under the kinds of conditions we're comfortable with.  I'm worried about the coma holding on with the drugs out of his system.  If we get through the operation, I want to do another CAT scan and a complete neurological work-up."

          "Why?"

          "I want to make sure there hasn't been any permanent brain damage due to the drugs or the injuries."

          McCabe watched three young ladies ride by on their bikes, laughing.  "Will we ever get Jake back?"

          "I don't know.  If the damage isn't physiological, I think we can, provided we go slow and he's willing to work with us."

          "He's very special to me."

          "I know.  I'll do everything I can."

          "Thank you, Doctor."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          McCabe thumbed through the same issue of _National Geographic_ he'd started three hours earlier.  Glancing down at the same Tibetan woman and her child, he finally tossed the magazine aside and stood.

          The nurses were avoiding the waiting room, tired of his constant inquiries.  He sighed.

_I shouldn't take it out on them, they really can't do anything to speed this up.  But I hate this damn waiting!_

          Derek rounded the corner, two cups of coffee in hand.  "Any word yet?"

          " _No_."

          The young man handed the coffee over.  "Sorry."

          "Derek, look, I'm just tired of waiting.  I didn't mean to yell at you."

 _Twice in one week?  Miracles_ do _happen_.  "That's okay.  I know you're worried, so am I."  He waited a moment before adding, "I think we might have a witness."

          That caught McCabe's attention and he stood, pacing in place.  "Tell me."

          "The police have been canvassing people on the beach for the last few days.  They found one of the kids who was in the group who called about Jake.  She was able to give the police the names of the other kids who were with her."

          "Did they see anything?"

          "Not really.  They were walking down the beach, trying to find someplace to set up a volleyball net when they saw Jake lying on the beach.  They said it looked like he might have been there a while."

          "Why?"

          "Well, the girl said that she remembers that there was sand on his body, dry sand, like he had been wet, fallen in the sand and then laid there long enough to let it dry.  The tide was coming in, though, and he was pretty wet when the paramedics got there."

          McCabe thought over the information while he continued to sip at the coffee.  "I'd like—"  he stopped when Dr. McTeague entered, still in her scrubs.  "How is he, doctor?"

          "He made it through the surgery.  We still have him on life support, but his vital signs are holding."

          "Thank God," McCabe whispered.

          "I'm afraid you won't be able to see him until morning, so why don't you two go get some dinner and some sleep?"

          "Can you join us?" the prosecuting attorney asked.

          She paused, checking her watch.  "Well, I am off my shift now.  I suppose I can.  Let me get changed and check in on Jake, first.  It'll take me about half an hour."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The two men watched as Caitlin savored the broiled halibut steak.  McCabe told her the news Derek had relayed.  "Does that mean anything to you?" he asked her.

          "No, not really.  I don't think Jake was in any shape to make rational decisions, though, if that's what you're getting at.  He did have some sea water in his stomach when he arrived.  We had to pump his stomach, and he'd swallowed some.  I'd guess he was in the surf for a time and finally collapsed where the kids found him."

          "He was shot before he was in the water?"

          "From the looks of the wound I'd say so."

          "Then Jake must have swam from someplace," Derek surmised.  He looked to McCabe.  "Another boat?"

          McCabe took another bite of his swordfish before he speculated.  "Whoever abducted him had to do it from a boat."

          "The injuries indicate he was held on land," Caitlin said, her beeper going off before she could continue.  "Excuse me, gentlemen."

          They watched her go, the older man noting the affection in the young blond man's eyes.  "Down, Mitchell," he chuckled.

          "Huh?"

          "I don't think the doctor's available."

          "She's married?" he asked, annoyed that his boss had seen his feelings so clearly.

          McCabe's eyes twinkled.  "To her work."

          The grim look on Caitlin's face worried McCabe as he watched her make her way across the dining room floor.

          "It's Jake," she said as she reached the table.  "His vitals de-stabilized.  Dr. Genoa doesn't want to use any drugs if we can help it, but it looks like his awareness is increasing and the pain from the surgery is de-stabilizing him."

          "Can we drive you back?"

          "No, there's no reason.  There's not a damned thing I can do.  He just wanted me to know what was going on."  She looked at the two worried faces watching her and tried to smile reassuringly.  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ruin dinner."

          "It's not," McCabe said smoothly.  "Please, sit down.  I don't plan on passing up dessert."

          Derek chuckled, and Caitlin sat.

          "He'll be fine," J.L. said matter-of-factly, "just fine."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          McCabe walked into the all too familiar waiting room and wondered how much longer he was going to be able to tell himself Jake would be all right.  Eight days and there was only a slight improvement in the detective's condition.

          He contemplated sitting, but it seemed that was all he'd been doing for longer than he cared to remember, so he paced instead.  The sound of running caught his attention and he rounded the corner, nearly colliding with Caitlin.

          "It's Jake, we took him off the respirator last night and not only is he holding his own, but he opened his eyes!"

          "He's awake?"

          "No, but he's not in a coma any more, he's just sleeping."

          "That's wonderful news," McCabe said, hugging the young woman, who returned the embrace with enthusiasm.  "Can I see him?"

          "I don't see why not," Caitlin said, stepping back.  "Just don't wake him up."

          "I won't, at least, I'll try."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The pair entered the room on tiptoe.  Dr. McTeague glanced at the machines that beeped and whirred around the room.  McCabe walked over and stood next to the bed.

          Jake didn't look any different than he had in the coma, but just knowing that it was sleep that kept his eyes shut was enough to make McCabe feel better.

          Caitlin moved to check the VI, clicking on the steady dose of nutrients and medications.  She reprogrammed the rate of flow as Jake stirred.

          Eyes still shut, the detective moaned softly and tossed restlessly in the restraints that held his arms alongside the bed rails.  McCabe watched the doctor's eyebrows pinch into a frown.

          Jake continued to fight weakly against the padded Velcro-fastened straps, his face twisting beneath the bruises.  Finally, he tried to speak, but appeared unable to force the sounds out of his throat.  He fought harder against the restraints, tossing his head, trying to escape the nightmare.

          He woke with a start, breathing heavily, and staring at the ceiling.

          "Jake?" Dr. McTeague said, but the detective showed no signs of having heard.

          "Jake?" McCabe said gently, concerned with the panicked expression on the younger man's face.  Again there was no response.

          Jake's breathing returned to normal, but he continued to stare at the ceiling, unaware of the pair watching him.

          Caitlin approached the bed and touched his arm gently.  "Jake, can you hear me?"

          The eyelashes fluttered, but he didn't look at the women.

          She reached over and turned his head so he was forced to look at her.  "Jake, can you hear me?"

          He blinked at her, shadows rising in his eyes until they became a wall he could hide behind safely.

          "Mr. McCabe, try talking to him."

          J.L. stepped closer to the opposite side of the bed.  "Jake, what the hell's wrong with you?"

          The dark-haired man blinked rapidly, the wall crumbling slightly.

          "Good, he responded to your voice," she said with a smile.  "Come over here."

          McCabe rounded the bed and stood next to the doctor, who still held Jake's face in her hands.  "Jake?" he said.

          The blue eyes moved for the first time, seeking out the sound of McCabe's voice, stopping when he made eye contact with the older man.

          Caitlin removed her small pen light from a pocket and shined it in the detective's eyes.  The pupils constricted and Jake blinked.  "He can see you," she whispered.

          Jake made no response to her.

          "What's wrong with him?" McCabe asked, uncomfortable under the vacant stare that held his own.

          "I don't know."

          "Jake?" McCabe tried again.  "Say something, Jake.  Tell me who did this."

          The blank stare was his only reply.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Derek fought back the anger that had been building over the past four days.  _Why doesn't Jake get better?_ he silently demanded.  _He just lies there, staring at the ceiling, refusing to sleep or respond to anything or anyone.  Why doesn't he get better or die and get it over with!_

          He caught himself and sank back into the chair of the hospital waiting room with a sigh.  _My God, what's wrong with me?_

          He sat, trying to sort out his feelings concerning Jake and McCabe.  He knew he'd always looked up at the older detective as the big brother he didn't have.  Jake was a good person, and a damned good cop.  Derek liked working with him and enjoyed the relationship they'd built.  Jake treated him with respect.  Jake trusted him, more than McCabe did in some instances.

          But he hated to see McCabe so upset.  The man was like a father to Jake, so it made sense that he was upset, but at the same time, Derek hated to watch that pain when he was helpless to do anything about it.  For all the grouch and bluster the man could work up, McCabe really was something of a marshmallow under it all.

          The young man smiled.  J.L. McCabe would probably huff for a week if he could read Derek's thoughts.  Marshmallow indeed, he could hear the older man storm.

          If there were just some kind of change it would help, something to give them hope, something to hold onto.

          He wondered what McCabe and the doctors were discussing.  Dr. McTeague had called earlier that morning, asking if J.L. could stop by so they could talk about some options.

          They'd driven straight over to the hospital, McCabe and the two physicians disappearing into Genoa's office, where they still were nearly two hours later.

          Anger crept into Derek's thoughts.  Jake's family was unable to come, so he was alone except for the people at work, and among those people, McCabe and Derek himself were the closest to the detective.

_So why am I being left out of this?  I care about what happens and I want to help._

          Derek stood and stalked over to the closed door of Genoa's office.  He paused, working up the courage to open the door and enter.  Finally, he grabbed the knob and turned, entering before he could convince himself not to.

          McCabe and the two doctors fell silent, staring at the young man who remained in the open doorway.

          "What is it?" J.L. finally asked.  "We're talking about Jake."

          "I know.  I want to help.  I don't like being left out of this.  I care about him, too, you know."

          McCabe's eyes widened slightly and he nodded, waving Derek into a chair.

          Dr. McTeague smiled.  "Come in, and we'll tell you what we have in mind.  The more help we can get the better chance we'll have."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "It's clear that he's blocking something, maybe what happened to him, or who did it, something.  When he sleeps, those defenses come down and he wakes up with the nightmares.  That's why he's fighting sleep.  We could sedate him, but with all that's happened we'd really rather keep the drugs to a minimum, but we also have to make sure he gets plenty of rest so he can heal," Dr. Genoa explained to Derek.  "What we need to do is break through the barriers he's erected, so we can start helping him deal with what's happened."

          "One way to do that might be to use drugs, which we'd like to hold as the course of last resort.  We could combine drug therapy with a kind of hypnosis and try and pull him past the events.  The other option, once he's a little stronger, is to move him to a more familiar environment – like back home – and hope that that sparks a recognition," Caitlin added.

          McCabe cleared his throat.  "I'm going to take a leave of absence, Derek."

          "He seems to respond best to Mr. McCabes' voice and presence," Genoa said. "We feel that a prolonged exposure might help break down the walls he's built up.  Having someone else he trusts around would probably help as well."

          Derek was silent for a moment, thinking.  "I care a lot about Jake, and I want to help.  Tell me what to do."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          McCabe prowled the living room while Caitlin and Genoa finished up with Jake.  They had waited four more days to make the move, wanting to make sure that the chest wound was healing properly and no other complications were going to surprise them.  The bruises, cuts, burns were faded or merely scars in various stages of healing.  Dr. Genoa assured the attorney that a little plastic surgery would erase nearly all the evidence of the event.  There would be a few permanent reminders, but nothing that would disfigure the detective.

 _Thank God for small favors_ , McCabe thought to himself as he passed around the room again.  Max watched his owner from a position on the couch and whined softly.

          "What's the matter, Max, you miss your own bed?  I'll have Derek pick it up."

          "I already did," came the young man's voice from the open door.

          "Oh, good, good.  You can put it in the kitchen."

          "It is."

          "Oh," McCabe floundered for words.  He was still feeling a little ashamed for not inviting Derek in on the doctors' plans from the beginning.  He should have realized, but his own concern had gotten in the way.

          "How much longer?"

          "I don't know."

          Caitlin emerged from the bedroom.  "He's resting comfortably.  We gave him a very mild sedative when we moved him, but it should be wearing off soon.  I'd like the two of you to stick close by.  When he comes to I'd like to bring you in the room and see what happens."

          The two men nodded.

          Dr. Genoa eased past the young woman and smiled.  "I think we brought a little too much equipment."  Both lawyers smiled.  "I leave Mr. Styles in your and Caitlin's good hands.  She's the best neuropsychologist I've had the pleasure of working with.  I'll drop in from time to time to see how that chest wound's healing."

          Caitlin smiled at the older man.  "Thank you."

          "Call if you need anything," he said, picking up his coat and heading for the door.

          "I will."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "What made you pursue this line of work?" Derek asked Caitlin as they sat, depleting Jake's stock of TV dinners.

          "I don't know exactly.  I guess part of it was having parents who were both doctors.  Mom was a clinical psychologist and Dad was a neurologist.  I just put what I grew up with together and specialized in neuropsychiatry.  I didn't like the emphasis on drug-based treatments, so after two years I decided to pursue the neurology and psychology separately, and finally ended up merging them when I was a resident in Houston."

          "Is Jake's problem neurological or psychological?"

          "The EEG, CAT scan, and MRI don't show any permanent brain damage, and the blood and cerebral fluid are clear of drugs now.  While I was working on my doctorate in holistic psychology, I ended up working with some POWs and Vietnam vets."  She grinned.  "It was a little like coming home."

          "Were you in Vietnam?" he asked, recalculating her age.

          "Yep, 1970 to 1972.  Seems like a lifetime ago.  My parents were civilian contracted physicians who were attached to the American embassy.  I feel like I did my internship on the psychiatric ward at DaNang.  When I finished medical school I worked with vets suffering from delayed stress.  You look surprised."

          "It's just that you, well, I thought you were younger than that."

          Caitlin laughed.  "An ancient thirty-nine.  I was in-country for a short time, but mostly I stayed with my mom's sister here in Hawaii.  It was an interesting way to grow up."

          "I'll bet," Derek said.  His head dipped slightly.  "Are you, uh, married?"

          "Yes."

          "Oh."

          Caitlin laughed.  "Derek, I'm a lesbian.  I've had the same domestic partner for almost twenty years."

          "Wow," Derek said.  "I— I didn't realize."

          "That's okay.  I'm actually flattered.  You're cute."

          Derek's cheeks flushed bright red.

          "What Jake's been through reminds me of the POW experience.  I just hope this works so we can really start helping him recover.  But it's not going to be dramatic.  He should start to see the pieces and then the picture should fall into place… if we're lucky."  Caitlin carried her emptied aluminum tray over and dumped it in the trash, while Max eyed her with a sorrowful gaze.  "Sorry, Max, this stuff isn't healthy," she told the bulldog.

          "Doctor!"  McCabe's voice echoed from the bedroom.

          Caitlin exchanged a quick glance with Derek, then headed for the bedroom.  "What?" she asked, entering.

          "He opened his eyes just a second ago."

          "You're sure," she asked, checking the still form that lay unmoving on the bed.

          "Positive."

          "Okay."  She sat down on the edge of the bed and touched Jake's hand – his wrists were restrained in padded Velcro straps.

          The blue eyes opened with a start.  Jake stared at Caitlin for several seconds before glancing past her at the dimly familiar wallpaper and Hawaiian ceremonial masks hanging on the opposite wall.

          "Jake?  Can you hear me?"

          The voice snapped his attention back to the woman.

          "Good, do you understand what I'm saying?"

          The dark-haired detective glanced nervously around the room, the angles familiar.  The look, smell, feel all crowded in on his awareness, driving wedges into the wall he'd erected.  The wall was cracking.  The realization panicked him and Jake threw his weight against the restraints that were only tucked under the mattress.

          Caitlin scrambled back, barely escaping the top of Jake's head as he arched up as far as he could.

          He had to get away.  He had to get away from the place that was somehow reaching through the wall for him.  He had to keep the wall in place or he would die.  Why or how escaped him, but he knew that on the other side of the wall was pain and fear like he'd never imagined.  If the wall cracked, he'd die.

          "What's wrong?" McCabe asked from the doorway.

          "I don't know, exactly.  He scared.  I think he doesn't want to remember," Caitlin said, watching as Jake struggled weakly.  "Come in and talk to him," she instructed the older man.

          McCabe moved to the foot of the bed.  "Jake, I want you to listen to me.  It's over.  You're home."

          Jake froze at the sound of the voice.  He remembered it, but from where eluded him, lost in the maze that he'd created to escape the pain and the fear.

          McCabe moved up so the dark-haired detective could see him.

          A twisted look of panic crossed the young man's face and he threw himself into the restraints with a renewed vigor.

          "Derek!" Caitlin called.

          The young man was immediately in the room.

          "Help Mr. McCabe hold him down," Caitlin said, moving off to prepare a sedative.

          McCabe and Derek tried, but their presence intensified Jake's fight.

          Derek grabbed the detective's shoulders, trying to hold him on the bed.  Caitlin stepped up, holding the syringe and looking for an opening.

          Jake's frantic gaze locked on the needle and a half-choked moan of "No," escaped his lips.

          Caitlin watched Jake's eyes fill with unshed tears, an overwhelming look of helplessness washing over his face.

          "No!" he cried.

          "Okay," she soothed.  "Step away, please."

          "What?" McCabe asked, afraid to release the detective.

          "Now," she said softly but forcefully, watching the blue eyes remain fixed on the syringe.

          The two men stepped back, watching nervously.

          "Leave, please."

          "Caitlin—"

          "Out," she snapped and watched their retreat.  Laying the syringe aside, she stepped away from Jake, saying quietly, "Easy, Jake, it's all right.  No one's going to hurt you."

          The injured man watched her carefully, his eyes darting sporadically around the room, confusion and fear still dominating his expression.  Fingers twisting into the covers, he fought for control.

          Caitlin approached the bed slowly, her hands turned palm out and held up slightly so he would see she wasn't hiding anything.  "Jake, can you understand me?"

          He nodded once.

          "Do you know where you are?"

          The detective looked around the room again.  He nodded.

          "Where are you, Jake?"

          "I— I don't know," he whispered.  A pleading look wrinkled his face.  "I— I don't know who I am."  The words were barely audible.  "I…"  He trailed off, the tears finally breaking free.  "What's wrong with me?"

          Caitlin moved to sit on the bed.  Leaning over, she released the restraints holding the detective's wrists.  Jake lay perfectly still, afraid to move and unsure why.  When his hands were free, he moved them to cover his eyes, wanting to cut off the view of the familiar yet distant room.

          "Help me?" he whispered.

          Caitlin reached out and pulled Jake's hands down.  He looked at her, the expression causing tears to build in her own eyes.  "I'm going to try, Jake.  I promise."

          He reached out, his hands trembling violently, the need to be held overcoming the certain knowledge that pain came from the hands of others.

          Caitlin felt the hesitancy and let the detective grab the lapels of her lavender lab coat and pull himself up slightly, trying to bury his face in the material.  She reached out, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and drawing him to her, allowing him to rest his cheek on her shoulder.

          "Easy, okay, we don't want you to pull those IV's out."

          Jake laughed, a sad hollow sound that broke into a half-choked sob.

          "Easy," she soothed, rocking him gently from side to side.  "I want you to listen to me, okay?  You're home.  This is your house.  It's safe here.  You're not alone and nothing's going to happen to you.  All you have to do is want to get through this and we'll help you."

          She felt him nod against his shoulder.

          "Good."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "What's taking so long?" McCabe stormed in the living room.

          Derek shrugged, watching the closed door anxiously, the terrorized expression on Jake's face refusing to fade from the shadows scattered across the room.

          "I'm going to find out."  McCabe reached for the knob as it turned and Caitlin slid out of the room, drawing the door closed behind her.

          "He's awake," she said.  "Derek, I want you to go sit with him."

          Derek nodded.

          "Talk to him, but don't press him for anything.  He probably won't know you, so just let him direct the conversation, okay?"

          He nodded a second time and entered the room, leaving her alone with the attorney.

          "What happened in there?" McCabe stormed at her.

          "Sit down, please," she suggested, taking a seat on the couch.

          McCabe took a position across from her.

          "He's been through an emotional as well as physical trauma.  He knows he's home, but he can't put now together with what happened.  He doesn't remember who he is, what he does for a living, or what happened to him.  All he knows is, he's absolutely confused, scared to death for no reason, and feeling helpless and lost.  He'll get used to being here, get used to seeing us, and realize we aren't going to hurt him."

          "You mean Jake doesn't know what happened to him or who did it?"

          "No, he knows, but right now, all that is buried, walled off someplace.  I think they used drugs to keep him incapacitated.  The experience is like a jigsaw, the drugs and the torture caused it to fracture into pieces.  Right now his subconscious is putting the pieces back together."

          "He doesn't know who he is?"

          "No, nor will he know you or Derek.  Well, that's not quite right," she corrected.  "He finds you familiar and realizes that he ought to know you, but he can't get to that information because to do so he'd have to face those fragments of memory, and he just isn't ready to do that right now."

          "But he will be… later?"

          "I can't guarantee it, but I think so.  I need to ask you a few questions about your relationship with Jake."

          McCabe nodded.  "Go ahead."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Derek watched Jake toss restlessly in his sleep, eyes darting beneath closed eyelids.  A slurred sentence made the young blond man jump.  Jake's eyes opened accompanied with a gasp and groan.

          "Jake?"

          The blue eyes moved sluggishly to the source of the voice.

          "H— Hi," Derek stuttered.

          Jake blinked.  Another familiar face, but as hard as he tried he couldn't put a name to it.

          "Would you like some water?"

          Jake shook his head, the blue eyes continuing to study the blond's face.

          Derek sat in silence, hoping the doctor or McCabe would hurry up and return.  Finally, the young lawyer stepped back and lowered himself into a chair borrowed from the living room.  Jake's gaze never wavered.

          "You're sure about that water?"

          "Yeah," Jake said softly, like his voice was also foreign to him.  "Thank you."

          "I guess you, uh, don't remember me, right?"

          Jake's head rolled.

          Derek sat up a little straighter.  "That's okay.  My name's Derek.  Derek Mitchell."

          "I'm sorry."

          The blond shrugged.  "The doctor says your memory will come back… later."

          "I hope so," Jake said, his head rolling to the side so the hauntingly familiar face was gone.

          "I know so," Derek told him.  "You're the strongest man I know, Jake, well, except maybe for Mr. McCabe."

          When Jake made no reply, Derek stood and stepped closer to the bed.  The detective was asleep again.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

_He ran down the beach, wolves snapping at his legs.  They were bloody and weak.  He knew each step might be his last..._

_The sand parted in front of him and he fell into a pit, snakes and insects swarming over him.  He pushed them off, trying to climb to his feet, but he kept slipping._

_Clawing at the sides of the pit caused the sand to crumble in, burying him.  He was suffocating._

_He screamed, fighting._

_Water.  He was drowning.  Sharks circling, rubbing against him, their skin like sandpaper.  He flailed wildly, trying to keep his head above the waves…_

_Waves…_

_Waves…_

_A boat._

_Kelly smiled, then laughed, teasing him about the tiny fish he'd caught._

_Kelly…_

_She screamed, the sound tearing though his head like a combine.  He stumbled forward, trying to reach her in time, but the man pressed the gun to the back of her head and fired.  She flopped forward, dead._

_He fell, crawling the rest of the way to the body…_

_Bodies…_

_Bodies…_

_Bodies…_

_Two more bodies, in the pit… nude, bloated, dead…  Several days dead, the flesh turning black…_

_The men threw him into the pit with the bodies, started shoveling…_

_The bodies…_

_Derek… J.L._

_J.L. McCabe…  Derek Mitchell…_

_Dead…_

_All dead…_

_The sand hit him in the face.  He was going to die…_

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "No!" Jake cried, sitting up in bed, his hands clawing through the unseen sand.

          "Jake?"

          The detective froze, his eyes widening as he stared at the ghost.  "Go— Go away," he hissed.

          "Jake?" McCabe asked.  "What's wrong?"

          "Go away!" he snapped.  "I know you're dead."

          "Dead?" J.L. questioned.  "Jake, I'm not dead."

          Styles laughed, a hollow, defeated sound.  "We're all dead," he panted, dropping back against the pillows.

          "No one's dead, Jake," McCabe insisted, moving to the side of the bed.  He sat down.  "Listen to me," he insisted.  Jake's eyes closed, but McCabe knew he was still listening.  "Jake, you were kidnapped.  Jack Wilder's the one responsible.  His men killed Kelly Paul, and they tortured you."

          The detective's eyes opened.

          McCabe's voice dropped to a near-whisper.  "God help me, Dan helped him.  Gave Wilder what he needed to do this…"

          Jake blinked, images flashing though his mind, falling tenuously into place.  "Dan?"

          "My son."  McCabe said the word like a curse.  "It was revenge, all revenge, Wilder's, Dan's…"

          "I'm not dead?"

          McCabe looked up, his eyes bright with emotion.  Reaching out, he squeezed Jake's arm reassuringly.  "No.  You're not dead.  There was a time we weren't sure, but you pulled through, and you'll make it through this, too, Jake.  I know it." The blue eyes closed again, and J.L. stood.  "You rest, Jake."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Caitlin joined Derek and McCabe in Jake's living room.  "He's resting.  And I took him off the IV's.  I think he's ready to start back on semi-solid food."

          Derek smiled.  "That's good, isn't it?"

          She nodded.  "Very."

          "But he's still… lost," McCabe said.

          "But he's making progress," Caitlin assured.  "We're going to get a breakthrough.  You watch."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The late movie droned in the background.  J.L. dozed in the recliner, Max stretched out at his feet.

          The squeak of the couch springs prodded the older man awake.

          "How many times have you seen this movie, now?"

          McCabe glanced from Jake to the screen where _Hawaiian Friday_ played.  He chuckled.  "I've lost count."

          Jake nodded, a half-smile on his face.

          "What are you doing up?"

          "Couldn't sleep."

          "Bad dreams?"

          Jake shook his head, then rubbed the back of his neck in an achingly familiar move.

          "You want something?" J.L. asked.

          "Naw."

          McCabe nodded.  "Jake, are you all right?"

          The detective weighed the words carefully.  "I— I don't think so, no," he said softly, his voice catching on the last word.

          J.L. moved from his chair to sit next to Jake on the couch.  "What's wrong?"

          Jake met the man's concerned gaze.  "I— I think I'm remembering."

          "That's good, Jake, really good."

          Styles shook his head.  "I— I don't think I want to."

          "You have to, Jake.  You have to."

          The younger man's chin quivered, and he nodded.  J.L. reached out, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.  Jake leaned against the comforting contact.  The tears fell silently down his cheeks, his shoulder occasionally quaking.  McCabe drew Jake into a shaky hug, holding the younger man until the tears passed.

          Jake finally pulled away, wiping his eyes with the back of a hand.  "Sorry."

          "For what?" J.L. asked, his own voice thick with emotion.

          "I lost it," Jake whispered.  "I really lost it."

          "You did what you had to in order to survive," McCabe argued.  "Oh, Jake, believe me.  I saw it happen in Korea.  You did the only thing you could to survive, and now you're working your way back."

          Styles met McCabe's proud gaze.  "I'm home, aren't I?"

          J.L. nodded.

          "And you and Derek are real."

          Another nod.

          "And Kelly's dead."

          "Yes."

          "They almost killed me."

          The reply was almost lost in the sea breeze.  "Yes."

          "But they didn't."  He looked at McCabe, a small smile on his lips.  "And I remember what they looked like."

          The P.A. drew Jake into a second hug.  "Good, good."

          Jake returned the hug, basking in the sense of safety that accompanied it.  He was going to be okay.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Caitlin motioned for McCabe to join her just outside Jake's back door.  She nodded toward the beach where Jake and Derek sat in quiet conversation.

          "He's doing a lot better than I expected."

          "Good," McCabe said, a smile on his face.

          "Another couple of weeks and I think he'll be ready to go back to work.  Desk duty."

          "For as long as necessary," J.L. assured her.

          "He's a good son," Caitlin said softly, slipping her arm through McCabe's.

          "They both are," he said with a quiet chuckle.  "But don't repeat that."

          "I wouldn't dream of it."

The End


End file.
